


Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo

by lightspire



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance, Suppressed Feelings, Swearing, Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:11:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3415400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightspire/pseuds/lightspire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adventures in swearing and romance at Number 10, Downing Street; interspersed with secret emails, texts, and telephone transcripts. My take on how it all began for Malcolm and Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chocolate

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by The Thick of It and The Missing DoSAC Files. Set during seasons 2-3. Title inspired by The Bloodhound Gang’s song of the same name.

 

 

> Hugh Abbot: “Do you get lonely?”
> 
> Malcolm Tucker: “No.”
> 
> Hugh Abbot: “Neither do I.”
> 
> \-- S.1 E.2, The Thick of It

* * *

 

Malcolm Tucker went out of his way to be respectful and charming to three kinds of people: those he needed to help him stay in power, those who were no threat to him, and his P. A. Sam Cassidy, who was in a class of her own.

Julius Nicholson was not one of the three kinds of people.

“I’m afraid you’re no longer calling the shots, Malcolm,” Julius declared, his voice oily with satisfaction. “You simply must accept that the future of government is here, and you are looking at it.”

“The future. No. You’re not the future. I am,” he gestured towards himself. “What _you_ are is an overeducated, sanctimonious, interfering toff, and those are your _good_ qualities.” Malcolm shot him a withering glare, his Glaswegian accent thick with contempt. 

“If you continue to refuse my requests for information, I’ll just have to take this up with the P.M.,” Julius snarled, “but I promise you’ll regret it. Mark my words!” he said, and stormed out of Tucker’s office.

“Yeah, I’ll mark your words with my shit when I use your baldy head as a fuckin’ bog roll, you poxbridge twat!” Malcolm yelled after him, his tone vitriolic, punctuating his invective with the flick of a two-fingered salute at Julius’ back.

“Sam!” he bellowed.

She appeared at once, ready to spring into action.

“I need you to pull all the correspondence we've got on Nicholson. It’s filed under F -- for Fucking Aresehole. It’s mixed in with all the other fucking arsehole folders. Sorry… it’s a big file. You may have to dig around a bit.” He paced the floor, tense, thinking.

“And get me Foster’s guy – what’s his name – you know,” he said, waving towards her, “the one who’s head looks like a badly manufactured dildo.”

“Geoff Andrews?” she offered, without missing a beat. She had worked for him long enough to be inured to his virtuoso performances of vulgarity.

“That’s the one. Get Geoff from International Development in here. I need to shout at him about those vaccine stats they fucked up before Julius can get his hands on them.”

She nodded.

“Oh, and I need a coffee – very, very black, please.” He rubbed his hands together, lost in thought, calculating his next move.

Sam brought him the coffee, and knowing that Malcolm would be so busy plotting that he’d probably forget to eat (as usual), she placed a packet of chocolate biscuits, a bunch of green seedless grapes, and three satsumas on a plate and set them on his desk. She slipped quietly out the door and returned to her own duties, which included keeping all the bullshit phone calls and emails away from him so he had time and space to work.

That evening, when the storms had passed and almost everyone else had gone for the day, Malcolm leaned back in his leather chair and watched the early news -- feet up, jacket off, collar and cuffs unbuttoned, hair tousled, glasses perched on his nose. Feeling peckish, he rummaged around his desk until he found the packet of chocolate biscuits Sam had left for him. He studied them for a moment, then looked out his open door to where she was tidying her desk, getting ready to leave.

_Good old Sam_ , he mused. _Always so thoughtful_.

He observed her for a long minute, admiring the way the late afternoon sun glinted gold off her silky brown hair -- until she discovered him gazing at her.

She locked eyes with him and a wide, sweet smile lit up her face, her brown eyes sparkling with mirth at having caught him staring.

“Goodnight Malcolm,” she said.

If Malcolm were the blushing type, he would have blushed, then. Instead, he simply said, “Night darlin’.” In moments like this he didn’t understand why she had put up with an old smug bastard like him for all these years, but he was grateful that someone did.

A few minutes later, nibbling a biscuit, the sweet warm chocolate melting on his tongue, he couldn’t help but notice that the chocolate was the same color as her hair. 

* * *

 

**From:** Malcolm Tucker [mailto: mtucker@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Sam Cassidy – Assistant to Malcolm Tucker

**Subject:** Where’s my chanter?

I need a copy of yesterday’s Telegraph so I can give a bollocking to Harry at Culture for talking off message, before I turn his lungs into a set of fucking bagpipes.

Also. I’m out of biscuits – the lovely chocolate ones. Can you get some in, please?

M x

*

 

**From:** Sam Cassidy – Assistant to Malcolm Tucker [mailto: scassidy@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Malcolm Tucker

**Subject:** RE **:** Where’s my chanter?

           On it. Yesterday’s Telegraph is now on your desk.

           I keep a stash of lovely chocolate biscuits in the pantry cupboard behind the Ryvitas, where no one ever looks. They’re yours.

           The chanter is in your credenza, second drawer down on the right, on top of the secret file you keep on Stewart Pearson.

           S x

           *

 

**From:** Malcolm Tucker [mailto: mtucker@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Sam Cassidy – Assistant to Malcolm Tucker

**Subject:** Stew Pot

                        You’re the best. Thanks for reminding me about the Pearson file. Could you fax a copy of it to his private number?

                        Add a note from me: Hope you’re enjoying your Majorca holiday, you pompous new-age cuntfuck.

                        Ta

                        Malc x

                        *

 

 


	2. Joy

 

Text to: Sam Cassidy

From: Malcolm Tucker

 

I need you to stay late tonight

Omnishambles at DEFRA

            M x

                       

I heard

I’ll be there

But it’ll cost you dinner

            S x

 

Fucking extortionist

            M x

 

I’m worth it

            S xx

 

Yes you are

See you in a tick

            M xx

* * *

 

“The things I let you get away with,” Malcolm said as he paid for two greasy white boxes of Kung Pao Chicken from a dodgy Chinese takeaway.  It was the only place still open and within walking distance of Number 10, so here they were. Again.

“A gal’s gotta eat,” Sam replied, opening her box and poking it with chopsticks. “I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.”

“A horse? You may be in luck, yeah?” He peered at his own meal through his dark-rimmed glasses, and lowered his eyebrows.

They were sat side by side on wobbly wooden stools, leaning against the red Formica counter as they ate. Pungent aromas of garlic and ginger filled the air, while flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead and sizzling woks clattered in the background.

Earlier that day, everything had gone tits up at DEFRA (the Department of the Environment, Food, and Rural Affairs), when the Deputy Minister had been caught having an affair with the chief executive of an agricultural conglomerate. The affair wasn’t the biggest problem, though: the kickbacks were. The flurry of sackings and press coverage had kept everyone in the Communications office busy fighting fires until late into the night. Malcolm had, of course, stayed at the center of the maelstrom, a dark conductor leading his minions in a crackling orchestral symphony of spin.

“They should rename it ‘The Department where Everybody Fucks you Right up the Arse’. They won’t even have to change their logo,” he said around a mouthful of rice. “You should’ve seen the little twat-weasel DM during his resignation speech. He was sweatin’ like Fatty’s arse cheeks in August.”

Sam decided not to think too hard about that image; she was trying to eat, after all.

“Slainte,” he said, popping the tab on a can of Fanta and lifting it towards her.

“Slainte,” she smiled and raised her bottled water, tapping his can lightly.  “Are we sure this is chicken?” she looked down at her food, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Well, it does taste like cock,” he said, chewing thoughtfully.

She took a bite of her own meal. “Yeah, it’s cock all right -- but what species?”

Malcolm laughed; she could take as good as she got, and he appreciated it. Soft and sweet on the outside, tempered steel on the inside – that was Sam in a nutshell.

Sam smiled at him. She loved listening to him laugh: the sound of his genuine laughter was full and throaty, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. This was a side of Teflon Tucker – the Dark Lord of Westminster -- that very few people ever saw. To her, it was beautiful.

As they ate, Malcolm and Sam played their favorite post-shit storm game, which they called “guess the headlines”. The object of the game was to either get as close as possible to the actual tabloid headlines, or to make the other person laugh. It was one way of staying sane in the midst of chaos, at least.

“ ‘A Rural Affair’,” Sam said. “That one writes itself. Your turn.”

He thought for a moment, then a mischievous expression lit up his face. “Dick-Tators Sacked,” he said, grinning.

Sam chuckled.

“Now you.” He pointed his chopsticks at her in challenge, then stuck the last bite of chicken into his mouth.

“How about – Agricultural Funds Butter Many Parsnips?”

“Nice use of double entendre,” he said, then sighed, a faraway look in his eyes. “But the amount of radioactive shite I’ve had to shovel over this catastro-fuck makes the Augean Stables look like a fuckin’ portaloo.” Agitated, he ran his left hand through his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, flashing the wedding ring he wore just for show, ever since his divorce many years ago.

“I’ve an idea,” Sam began, trying to cheer him, “We should get Gordon Ramsay in as a DEFRA spokesperson. He could cook up a feast from _The Big Book of Erotic Food_ and raise money for charity. We can call it: ‘Fork the Homeless’.” 

He smiled. “I like it.” He gave her arm a light squeeze, then stood to leave.

Their meal finished, they walked from the eatery to the high street, hoping to find a cab.

“Jesus Christ, It’s cold enough to freeze the bollocks off a brass monkey,” said Malcolm, as they pulled their coats tight against the freezing cold and drizzle, their breath coiling into white wisps in the frigid air.

Suddenly, lightning flashed overhead, followed by a loud clap of thunder. The skies opened up and torrents of rain poured down upon them. Neither one of them had an umbrella, not a cab was in sight, and it was too far to walk back to Number 10 without getting drenched. Seeking shelter, they ducked into the dimly lit doorway of a bookshop that was covered by a deep overhang.

Once inside their temporary refuge, Malcolm took off his rain-spattered glasses and stuffed them into his pocket.  That’s when he noticed that Sam’s jacket was soaked through, and she was trembling from the cold.

“Darlin’, you’re shivering. Here.” Malcolm unbuttoned his long black wool coat, about to take it off and give it to her, but she stopped him.

“You’ll freeze,” she said, her teeth chattering. “You’re built like a twig; you’ve got no insulation.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Sam. I’ll no’ be responsible for you catching your death. I reserve that for the tossers who actually deserve it.” He started to take off his coat again, but before he could do so, Sam stopped him a second time.

“Wait,” she said, and stepped forward, slipping one arm around his waist in a half-hug, so that his right arm was over her shoulder and one side of his coat was wrapped around her. “See? Now maybe we’ll both live a little longer.”

Surprised by Sam’s bold behavior, Malcolm stiffened his body but didn’t pull away. She had the infuriating habit of being right most of the time; he probably _would_ turn into a giant Scottish ice-lolly if he took off his coat. An image of the obit headline flashed through his mind: “Sucker Tucker: Dead at 49 from Hypothermia and Stupidity”.

He shrugged and let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh for fuck’s sake. Fine. But my mobile’s in my trouser pocket.” He glanced downward, indicating the spot on his hip where Sam was pressed against him.

She laughed. “You should definitely get that yourself.” She stepped out of the half-embrace so he could reach for his phone.

He called for a car, then invited her back to his side and wrapped his coat around them both, sheltering her in his long arms. They stood together in comfortable silence, the rain drumming on the roof overhead as they waited. Sam leaned into him a little, seeking more warmth. She was so tired, and the sound of the rain was soothing, and he was so warm…she yawned, closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his soft black Paul Smith scarf where it curved across his shoulder, and let out a little contented sigh.

Malcolm felt an odd mixture of affection and uncertainty at this gesture. Nobody in their right mind trusted Malcolm Tucker, but here she was, someone who had trusted and tolerated him for many years, practically falling asleep in his arms. And then, he sensed it: the heat building between their bodies--bodies which fit together perfectly, her curves nestled into his angles from hip to shoulder--and a jolt of electricity curled up his spine.  Something awoke in his mind in that instant, and the tectonic plates of his worldview shifted from thinking of Sam as just his P.A., a position in which he viewed her in a protective, almost paternal light… to something not paternal in the least. Lightning crackled somewhere in the distance; the air filled his nostrils with the scent of ozone and rain…and something else. Her perfume.

She smelled wonderful: the fragrance was classy, slightly naughty, probably French, and definitely expensive. He wondered what it was.

“What is that?” he asked, breaking the quiet, before realizing that might be an inappropriate question for a boss to ask a subordinate--even if that subordinate was currently snuggled in his arms.

“Mmm. What’s what?” Her voice was low and sleepy.

“Nothing.” There was an awkward pause. Sam raised her head and looked up into his blue-green eyes, questioning.

“Your perfume.” he said.

Sam looked concerned. “Is it bothering you?”

“No. Just making conversation. Never mind.”

“It’s called Joy. It’s only the eau de parfum, though. You don’t pay me enough for the real thing.”

He scowled. “Huh. Well whatever it is, it suits you.”

“Thank you.” she replied, enjoying the compliment.

Their faces were so close together that he could see the tiny raindrops that clung to her eyelashes, lit up like miniature stars by the streetlights. Her slightly parted lips were just centimeters from his own, and a dangerous, new possibility occurred to him: he could kiss her, right now, if he wanted to. He licked his lips involuntarily.

Sam sniffed the air. “You smell like soy sauce and Fanta,” she said, breaking his reverie. “And the blood of your enemies,” she added, amused.

“Cheeky.” He pretended to look angry, but couldn’t stop the smirk that curled his lip. “I ought to let you fuckin’ freeze for that.” But still he held her, enveloped in his warm embrace.

A moment later, their car appeared around the corner. Malcolm immediately dropped his arms and they stepped away from each other. Although she started shivering again, they both knew that he couldn’t risk being seen in a compromising position with his P.A. Drivers could easily be bribed -– as he well knew. As soon as the car stopped in front of them, they dashed from under the sheltering doorway and threw themselves inside.

“Night, Sam. See you at stupid o’clock in the morning,” Malcolm said when the car pulled up to her door.

“G’night Malcolm. And thanks for keeping me warm.” She flashed him a dazzling smile, and gave his hand a squeeze. He couldn’t help but answer with a small, almost boyish, grin of his own. Her eyes lingered on his face for a moment, a multitude of unsaid thoughts flickering across her features, before she turned and made a run for the door.

As the car pulled away, he leaned back into the seat and rubbed his tired eyes with his hand, a hand that still tingled from the touch of her warm fingertips. That’s when he sensed the faint trace of her perfume clinging to his skin and clothes, especially his scarf where she had leaned her cheek against it. Usually he hated it when someone’s perfume (particularly the nauseating, tawdry kind) lingered, stinking up the place like a brothel and incriminating anyone who came in contact with it. But this…well, this was actually just a bit enchanting. He pulled the scarf up to his nose and breathed deeply, and imagined what it would be like to kiss those soft pink lips, and wondered what she tasted like. 

But then -- _Oh fuck_. _This is wrong_. 

It was one thing to have the occasional shag with some tarty hack journalist, and he did, but this… this was Sam. His P.A. One of the few people in the world he actually trusted. While office romances weren’t explicitly forbidden, there were very clear rules in place about sexual harassment, not to mention the need to protect his reputation -- and thus his power. What was left of it, anyway.

Power had always been a jealous mistress – one who spurned any suggestion of beauty, delicacy or grace unfortunate enough to cross her path. The only lover that Power could accept was anger. Power and rage, the two attendant poles of the same planet: the addict and the absinthe, the vulture and the liver, locked together in an inseparable dance. Power and love did not –- could not -- mix.

_Besides, what possible reason could she have to fancy you, you old twat, let alone want to be with you?_

Even if that little cuddle in the rain had been something more than just a passing note, at the very least any relationship with Sam beyond the purely professional could get complicated, quickly, and complicated was never good. He sighed, and scratched the back of his neck.

_Fucking fuck_. 

The very idea was double-plus-unfucking-good. He mentally kicked himself for letting his guard down and allowing himself to have feelings like some spotty, hormone-addled teenager on the pull.

Then and there he decided not to pursue this – her – any further. He stamped out the tiny spark of hope in his heart, ground it under his metaphorical heel, and resolved to get his scarf dry-cleaned as soon as possible. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily.  

“Elvis,” he said to the driver, “Take me home.”

* * *

 

10 Downing Street

LONDON SW1A 2AA

  ** _Transcript_** _of telephone call 02. 11. 09, connection logged at 14:17. Number 10, outgoing [handset C1] caller MALCOLM TUCKER, Director of Communications. Landline recipient, OLIVER REEDER, Special Advisor to Rt. Hon Nicola Murray, Minister, DoSAC._

 

MT      Ollie, yeh lanky streak of shite.

OR      Ah. Yes. Hello Malcolm. What can I do for you?

MT      What’s the story in Bala-fuckin-mory? With the computer cock-up. You’d better not be faffing about with any of those [ _inaudible_ ] media knob-ends.

OR      Well. About that. Actually… Glenn may have accidentally said something to Angela Heaney at the Mail. Possibly. But it’s OK. Terry’s on it.

MT      _[inaudible]_ Tell me you’re taking the fucking piss.

OR      No really, it’s fine. It’s not like the hacks have us by the short and curlies or anything.

MT      Jesus H. Fucking Corbett! [ _inaudible, volume distortion, possibly ‘mingebag’_ ] Is everyone fucking dead from the neck up over there or just you?

OR      There’s no need to go off your tree, Malcolm. We’ve got it under control. Everything’s tickety-fuckety-boo.

MT      Yeah, you’ve got it under control like Ben Swain on an all-night sugar binge.

OR      Ha. Funny.

MT      I’m coming over.

OR      No, no, really, that’s not necessary…. Malcolm? Malcolm? _[inaudible]_ Fuck.

_[terminated by caller]_

* * *

Malcolm was at DoSAC and out of the Communications office for much of the day. It was strangely quiet without his electrifying presence, and while most of the other workers were glad of the calmer atmosphere, Sam missed the buzz that Malcolm created and the aura of power that radiated from him wherever he went. Late in the afternoon, she found an email from him in her in tray:

 

**From:** Malcolm Tucker [mailto: mtucker@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Sam Cassidy – Assistant to Malcolm Tucker

**Subject:** Cinderella’s ball gown

I need a favor. Can you please get my dry cleaning in? I’m still stuck with the chucklefucks at the Department of Sod All and Citizenshit and I really need the black Armani for tomorrow’s meeting with the Foreign Sec. A few things on my coat rack need to be sent out – gray suit, two shirts (light starch), and the tux. Ask them to get the red wine stains out of the left sleeve. The Transport Minister got pissed and started singing karaoke, and there was an incident.

Cheers

M x

*

**From:** Sam Cassidy – Assistant to Malcolm Tucker [mailto: scassidy@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Malcolm Tucker

**Subject:** RE: Cinderella’s ball gown

            Pictures or it didn’t happen.

            Your black Paul Smith scarf is also on the coat rack. Do you want me to send it to be cleaned with the other things?

S x

            * 

**From:** Malcolm Tucker [mailto: mtucker@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Sam Cassidy – Assistant to Malcolm Tucker

**Subject:** RE: RE: Cinderella’s ball gown

                                Oh, I’ve got pictures. Yes have the scarf cleaned.

                                *

**From:** Malcolm Tucker [mailto: mtucker@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Sam Cassidy – Assistant to Malcolm Tucker

**Subject:** Urgent

                                                   I’ve changed my mind. Leave the scarf.

                                                   *

* * *

 

Two days later, on the morning of her birthday, Sam found a bouquet of miniature pink roses in a cut crystal vase and a small present wrapped in pale blue paper on her desk. The hand-written card attached to the gift read:

 

          Happy Birthday -- To the best P.A. in all of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. -- Malc x

 

She unwrapped the box, and gasped. Inside was a tiny bottle of Joy perfume -- the genuine article. Malcolm wasn’t in his office, so she pulled out her phone and sent him a text:

 

It’s too much

I love it!

Thank you!!

S xx

 

A few minutes later, he replied:

 

No it isn’t

Happy Birthday

M xx

 

From that day on -- every time she stood near him to take a message, her hand resting lightly on his back; or passed close by him in a narrow hallway; or pressed against him in a crowded lift -- he noticed it: the scent of her perfume.

And every time Malcolm wore his black scarf, still infused with the faint essence of that night in the rain, he thought of her…and it fucking hurt, just a little. He wore it _because_ it hurt, like a fresh bruise on his heart that ached whenever he dared touch it. The scent made his chest clench with a sharp twinge of longing for something he could never allow himself to have, and his throat tightened just a little – and it was better than feeling nothing. It reminded him that he could still feel something, anything that wasn’t rage at the tidal wave of sewage better known as his life that threatened to drown him daily. It reminded him that his heart wasn’t a frozen husk of ashes and regrets.

Not completely.

Not yet.

* * *

“Fuck a-doodle-do! Wake up, yeh lazy lobs! It’s time for your morning cup of cock,” Malcolm bellowed cheerfully to his staff as he strode into the office the one dreary late November morning.

When Sam walked in a few minutes later, she and Malcolm made eye contact for an instant; her eyes searched his face, but his expression was almost unreadable. He greeted her with a light smile as his mask fell into place.

“Sam. Morning! How are you?”

“Morning,” she said.

“I need you to get a few things in. Can you do that?” He handed her a handwritten list on a yellow sticky note along with 30 quid in cash:

 

                   Sam – please get: 

                   (for pantry) coffee, Fanta, Kit-Kats, Satsumas 

                   (for me) The Defense Minister’s dossier

                   -- Malc x

 

“You mean like this?” she asked, holding up her hands, a self-satisfied smile on her face. In one hand was a shopping bag brimming with all of the items on the list already in it, plus a box of his favorite tea and a skinny muffin, the latter of which she handed to him.  In the other hand was a fat brown file folder – the dossier – which she waved towards him, utterly amused by his shocked expression.

Malcolm stared at her. “That’s fuckin' scary. How did you do that?”

“Not saying,” she replied coyly. She took the money from him, and gave him exact change in return. “But I can forge your signature, too, so you’d better be nice to me.” She turned on her heel and sashayed into his office.

Malcolm watched her go, her hips swaying seductively as she walked. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly gone dry.

_I am so fucked_.

 

 

 


	3. Oranges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter has an almost (threatened) non-con scene so if that bothers you, please take that into consideration before reading.

**From:** Malcolm Tucker [mailto: mtucker@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Sam Cassidy – Assistant to Malcolm Tucker

**Subject:** Briefing folder

Have you seen my Schaden File? I need it for the Party conference.

*

**From:** Sam Cassidy – Assistant to Malcolm Tucker [mailto: scassidy@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Malcolm Tucker

**Subject:** RE: Briefing folder

              Which file is that? I looked under “S” but didn’t find anything.

              S

              *

  **From:** Malcolm Tucker [mailto: mtucker@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Sam Cassidy – Assistant to Malcolm Tucker

**Subject:** RE: RE: Briefing folder

                               My schadenfreude file. The one with all my favorite things in it. Check the desk.

                               If you find it, no peeking or I’ll use your ovaries for castanets.

                               M x

                               *

**From:** Sam Cassidy – Assistant to Malcolm Tucker [mailto: scassidy@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Malcolm Tucker

**Subject:** RE: RE: RE: Briefing folder

                                                  Oh. You mean your blackmail file. Found it.

                                                  I’ve locked it in my drawer for safekeeping until you can get to it.

                                                  There had better not be anything on me in there.

                                                  S x

                                                  *

**From:** Malcolm Tucker [mailto: mtucker@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Sam Cassidy – Assistant to Malcolm Tucker

**Subject:** RE: RE: RE: RE: Briefing folder

                                                                     Don’t worry -- you’re cleaner than an autoclaved vat of hand sanitizer.

                                                                     There’s some really amusing stuff on Jamie though.

                                                                     If you behave maybe I’ll show it to you sometime.

                                                                     M x

                                                                     *

* * *

 

It was the third grueling night of the Party conference. There was to be a big press gathering the next morning, followed by a black-tie evening gala back in London. Sam and Malcolm were stuck in his hotel en-suite, working late at night vetting speeches for the P.M. and other ministers.

Sam had changed after dinner into a soft pair of fitted jeans and a thin blue knit top, and met him in his room. He had a kitchenette and table, which meant they had plenty of space to spread out and could keep working without interruption. Malcolm had shucked off his jacket and tie, unbuttoned his collar and removed his cufflinks, and worked in his shirtsleeves. He was sat in front of the window, bent over his work, his salt-and-pepper hair backlit by the setting sun like the silver lining on a storm cloud. Sam couldn’t stop herself smiling when she saw him in this state; even now, rumpled and half undressed, he retained a certain majesty. If majesty looked cuddly enough to hug, that is.

By midnight, the table was littered with stacks of papers, empty cans of Red Bull and half-drunk cups of coffee, a mostly-eaten tray of raw veg and taramosalata that Sam had ordered in (to make sure Malcolm ate some real food), an empty bag of Monster Munch, and a stray Curly-Wurly wrapper. The sofa was piled high with files and notebooks, leaving nowhere to sit but a couple of uncomfortable hotel chairs. With no room left to work, they’d moved their papers to the king-sized bed, laptops and files at the ready.

Sam didn’t remember falling asleep.

It wasn’t the first time they’d fallen asleep in the same room; all-night crisis management sessions were part of their lives, after all. Sam had dozed off in the spare room in Malcolm’s house a handful of times, and after some really bad nights when no one could leave Number 10, they’d both fallen asleep in his office. But they’d never ended up in the same bed before.

*******

06:23. Pale, early-morning light streamed around the edges of the curtains, and Sam’s eyes fluttered open. She was lying on her side under a duvet, still dressed in her casual clothes, and for a second she couldn’t remember where she was.  In almost the same instant, she realized with a shock that Malcolm was asleep right next to her, lying on his back and wearing only a pair of dark patterned boxer shorts and a T-shirt -- and her arm was draped over his chest. Worse, her left leg was resting on his leg, and her thigh was pressed up against his… _oh god he’s got a massive hard-on._ Her mouth suddenly went dry, and she licked her lips.

She lay there, blushing furiously, holding her breath, torn between pulling away before he woke up, and wanting very much to stay exactly where she was. He was warm and smelled of the enticing, mossy-citrus aftershave that he wore, and his cheek was right next to her mouth. His long eyelashes framed his eyelids, still closed in sleep. She admired the line of his hawkish nose and the delicate, almost porcelain skin of his face, etched with the wear of his nearly 50 years. Even his usually fearsome eyebrows that could scowl anyone into submission were more relaxed than she could ever remember seeing before. He almost looked innocent, childlike. At peace.

Just then, he moaned softly, a sad sound that pulled at her heartstrings. When was the last time anyone had hugged him, let alone held him in his sleep, she wondered? He always acted like the proud lone wolf, but Sam had long suspected that under the bluster and fury that he wore like a suit of armor lay buried the deeply lonely soul of a frightened, broken idealist.

And although she had often imagined, secretly, what it would be like to sleep with Malcolm, this wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind. This was far more beautiful, and far more heartbreaking. Her heart ached for him a little at the thought, and she had the sudden urge to give him a comforting kiss.

As if in response to her musings, Malcolm turned his head so that his cheekbone brushed against her mouth. The touch sent an electric tingle through her lips and an even deeper blush to her cheeks.

Feeling the tickle of her warm breath on his face, Malcolm woke with a start, instantly aware that Sam was practically lying on top of him, and equally aware that he had seriously fucked up. His body betrayed him then, heat pooling immediately in that part of him which was already stiff to begin with. Fucking Norwegian Wood had a mind of its own.

_Shit. This wasn’t supposed to happen._

He had intended to get up early and dress before she awoke, but here she was nestled against him like a lover in a post-coital haze. His brain raced through a dozen possible strategic responses to the situation, before deciding on the best course of action –- do nothing. Say nothing. There is no story here. Gently, he placed his hand over hers and slid it off his chest, untangled his legs from hers, turned his back to her, sat up, and swung his feet to the floor.

Sam watched him, transfixed, as he rolled his shoulders, the muscles of his arms lean and taught over his thin frame.  He rubbed the back of his neck and ran his long, elegant fingers through his disheveled hair, messing it up even more. A black silk kimono-style dressing gown lay at the foot of the bed; he reached for it, slipped it on, and tied the belt. As he stood up, she watched how the silk glided over his skin and settled into place around his body. Just then, Malcolm glanced over his shoulder and caught Sam’s eyes as they flicked from his silk-covered bum to his face. She held his gaze without embarrassment. The slightest trace of a smirk played across her pink mouth, and she bit her lower lip.

He stared back at her, his eyes slightly hooded and his nostrils flaring, before he forced himself to look away. Her brazenness had turned him on in ways he hadn’t expected -- and abso-fucking-lutely didn’t need right now. There was a battle going on inside him, between his body and his mind, between wanting to take her in his arms and go wherever that led, damn the torpedoes -- and the need to keep his distance, to honor his vows to the job he had long ago married.

_Fuck me._ He thought _. But not that kind of fuck me. Shit._

Feigning indifference, he ambled to the kitchenette, filled the electric kettle from the tap and flipped the switch. While he waited for the water to boil, he plucked a satsuma from the half-full bag on the counter and peeled it, casually pitching bits of rind into the rubbish bin by his feet.

Sam sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Thanks for the duvet,” she said, her voice husky with sleep. Her hair fell around her shoulders in a loose, messy tangle that Malcolm found positively erotic.

“You looked cold,” he replied, his mouth full of fruit.

She grabbed her black leather handbag off the nightstand and rummaged around for a hairbrush, then smoothed her hair back into a low ponytail and secured it with a tortoiseshell clip. Sam could feel his eyes burning into her, watching her every move. It made her feel both excited and a little wary, since she really didn’t know what he was thinking right now, or what, if anything, he would say next.

Malcolm made the mistake of staring at her while he ate his satsuma. He noticed the way her shirt hugged the curves of her breasts, and felt the firm texture of the orange yield to his teeth. He sucked another segment into his mouth as he spotted the raised mounds of her nipples, hardened from the cold air in the room, peeking from beneath the knit fabric.

_Bloody hell. Oh shit._ _Do. Not. Go. There._

He went there. As she bent to put on her shoes, her jeans gapped a little at the back, revealing a hint of black lace on the waistband of her knickers. His eyes traced the line of her hips downward as he placed the rest of the fruit into his mouth and lapped at the soft flesh; juice flooded his tongue, and he swallowed. It burned with bittersweet acid as it ran down his throat, marking the memory of this moment with the scent and flavor of oranges.

Malcolm’s mistake didn’t last long, however, because his inner self-loathing Tucker swooped down on him like a falling guillotine blade. _Control your dick, you manky, lecherous old fuck-face._

He argued with himself: _But she kissed me! She was practically riding me! She ogled my arse!_

Inner Tucker quickly shouted down any excuses: _NoMFP. You’re her fucking BOSS. This is abso-fucking-lutely not OK._

It was time for a new strategy; time to shore up his defenses, to think about something else…something really unattractive, like Ollie Reeder with his head in a toilet. Or Nicola Murray trying to form a coherent sentence. Or, you know, his entire life. He mentally dove into the shelter of his business-mind, and desperately shoved any unprofessional thoughts deep into the hard, black corners of his heart.

“So….” Sam approached him cautiously, unsure of how (or whether) to broach the subject of finding themselves in bed like two spoons in a drawer. 

“Och, Where are my manners?” he interrupted, and held out an orange. Sam took it from his hand, letting her fingertip trace along the edge of his palm as she did so. His ice-blue eyes locked with her brown ones for a moment as they touched, and his pupils dilated for just a split second.

“Cheers,” she said.

“Don’t mention it, darlin’.” _Just don’t_. He trusted that she was smart enough to pick up on the double meaning of his words. He also sincerely hoped that she hadn’t noticed his straining erection, which he was certain the thin silk fabric of his kimono was doing an abysmal job of hiding. 

In answer, Sam held his gaze for just a tick too long. To her surprise, Malcolm turned away first, fumbling for another orange in the bag. He quickly peeled it, focusing all his attention on the task. They stood in uneasy silence for a minute, eating and blatantly ignoring the orange-scented, elephant-sized cloud of conflicted emotions that hung in the air between them.

Malcolm finally spoke. “The press conference is in the Brighton Room,” he said, all business. “Make sure everything is ready, yeah? I don’t want to give those seat-sniffing vampire hacks anything to complain about. We’ll have enough mess to mop up after the Transport Minister’s done pissing himself in front of the cameras.”

“Of course,” she replied, finishing the last of her fruit. Fine. He didn’t want to talk about it. She deliberated saying something anyway, especially considering that he looked ready to eat her alive, then thought the better of it. Best to let sleeping wolves lie. _Though one part of him was obviously wide awake_ ….  She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“If you’ll excuse me love, I’m away for a slash.” He headed towards the bathroom. _And a wank; I’m in serious blue-ball territory here. But I’ve no intention of telling you **that**. _

As she reached for the doorknob, he said, “Thanks for staying on last night.” He gave her a roguish smile, and winked. “And for keeping me warm.”

Sam inhaled sharply, her eyes wide with shock. She spun towards the door, yanked the doorknob and left as quickly as possible. Safely out in the hallway and away from Malcolm’s scorching gaze, she took a deep breath to calm her rapidly beating heart and rubbed her hand over her face. She could still smell the scent of oranges on her skin.

_That mixed-message-delivering bastard_ , she thought.

At the same instant that he heard the door click shut, Malcolm registered her stunned expression. “Christ on a cross-trainer.” He mumbled to himself. “What the fuck just happened?”

* * *

 

“Will you be at the big do tonight?” Malcolm asked her later that afternoon.

“Yeah. Wayne and I will be there.”

“Who?” he asked, trying to mask his surprise.

“Wayne. From I.T.? You know, the tall, fit bloke with the hipster glasses? I’ve asked him to be my plus one.” She regarded the bemused expression on Malcolm’s face. “You didn’t need me to work, did you?”

“Work? No, of course not. You go. Have a brilliant time,” Malcolm said, giving her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “maybe I’ll see you there. That is, if I’m not too busy trying to keep Remtard Remington out of the drink.”

It felt like a punch in the gut to learn that Sam would be attending as someone else’s date, even though Malcolm knew he didn’t have any right to an opinion on the matter. He’d forfeited that privilege the day he’d forbidden himself to fancy her (even though he’d done a piss poor job of stopping himself). He had made his fucking bed and now he had to lie in it –- alone.  

Back in his office that evening, when he was supposed to be getting ready for the gala, Malcolm instead found himself aggressively chucking unneeded documents into the shredder. “I bet he has a cock the size of a biro and about as much personality as greasy dishwater,” he mumbled, and shoved so much paper in at one time that it jammed.

* * *

 

“Hello Sam! Well, don’t you look love-love-lovely?” said a slightly tipsy Nicola Murray, nearly spilling her glass of sparkling wine down Sam’s dress. “I mean, not that you don’t usually look lovely, I just meant that you look especially nice tonight. Even though you always look nice, of course. Ha ha!! And who’s this?” she asked, sloshing her glass towards Sam’s date, a tall awkward looking man wearing hipster glasses and a suit that didn’t fit him. He had his arm possessively around Sam’s shoulders, and she looked uncomfortable under his grip. “You look familiar, have we met?”

“Wayne,” he said, “I fixed your computer system a few months back.”

“Oh! Yes! I remember. Thanks again for getting the porn off of it. I still have no idea how those naked pictures of Andy Murray photoshopped with me _en_ _flagrante_ got on there,” she said, giggling.

“No problem,” he replied, “though it seems to be a regular thing in your department.” An awkward silence fell and Sam blushed in secondhand embarrassment. “Hey is that the bar?” He asked, and yanked Sam’s arm, dragging her away from Nicola.

“Ouch, Wayne! Excuse me, Minister – guess we’re going now. Nice to see you.”

Malcolm spotted Sam by the bar and he almost gasped when he saw her. She looked sexy as fuck in a form fitting black gown with a plunging open back, stiletto heels, demure diamond stud earrings, and her hair pulled into a chic chignon with a few loose ringlets framing her face. He scowled when he saw Wayne, though – especially the way he kept steering Sam around and smacking her on the bum.

Likewise, it was almost impossible for Sam not to notice Malcolm, surrounded as he was by the most rich and powerful men and women in British politics. Resplendent in his black tuxedo and bowtie, looking very much the part of a Scottish James Bond, Malcolm was in rare form. By turns charming, flirtatious, and insulting, he bantered with everyone as he worked his way through the crowd. He held a glass of orange juice in one hand, completely sober as usual at such events. Malcolm liked to remain in charge of his faculties (and everyone else’s, if necessary), reserving his alcohol use for private settings.  She waved at him, and he raised his glass to her in acknowledgement. 

*****

A couple of hours later, the celebration was winding down, the crowd had begun to disperse, and several people had had far too much to drink. Malcolm was still there; he told himself that he’d stayed in case a blackmail photo opportunity presented itself. The truth was that he had kept one eye on Sam and her date all night, circling them from a distance like a shark. Malcolm had chided himself at first for being overprotective of her, but gradually felt justified as Wayne became more and more drunk, and more and more handsy with Sam.

Towards the end of the night, Wayne had cornered Sam in a dark alcove to one side of the room, with clearly less than honorable intentions.

“You ever shagged at a party before, babe?” Wayne said, waggling his eyebrows, his voice slurred. 

“Not interested.” She tried to slide away from him, but he put an arm up, blocking her escape.

“You frigid or something?” He said, a nasty edge to his voice.

“Stop it Wayne. You’re drunk.”

“Awww, I just want a li’l kisssss.” He leaned towards her, licking his lips, his breath reeking of alcohol. Sam tried to push him away, but he put his other arm up, pinning her against the wall.

“Let me go. Now,” she said, raising her voice. Sam was busy calculating whether to stomp on his foot with her stiletto, knee him in the goolies, or kick him in the kneecap when Malcolm suddenly appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Is this twat bothering you?” He glowered at Wayne.

Wayne looked back and forth between Sam and Malcolm, and sneered. “Who’s this, your boyfriend? You never told me you had Daddy issues.”

“Her boss, actually,” growled Malcolm, his expression ominous. “But my friends just call me Mad Dog McFuck.”

“Malcolm, this is Wayne. He was just leaving.” Sam said, still wedged against the wall. She shot him a pleading glance. _Help me_.

“Well, _Wayne._ So sorry to make your acquaintance. I think you should fuck off now, maybe call a cab,” Malcolm jabbed a thumb towards the door, his voice seething with barely controlled rage.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, mate. We’re just havin’ a bit of fun.” Wayne glared at Malcolm, daring him to back down.

“Listen Wanker, or whatever the fuck your name is….” Malcolm’s voice dropped dangerously low and he clenched his fists, “I _really_ think you should fuck off now.” The air around him began to crackle with the energy of an approaching storm, but Wayne was either too stupid or too drunk to notice. Probably both.

“Fuck off yourself, you tosser.” Wayne turned back to face Sam, caressing her cheek with a lascivious expression in his eyes. Sam flinched and turned her head away, a look of disgust on her face.

Malcolm exploded. “Listen you vile sheep-fucking cocknugget!” He grabbed Wayne by the arm and spun him away from Sam, forcing him back against the wall. “You are going to leave. _Now_. And if I _ever_ ,” he jabbed a finger at Wayne’s face, “see your fucking face again, I’m going to rip off your microscopic bollocks and shove them so far down your fucking throat you’ll be farting them out your shitepipe for a month!” Spittle flew from Malcolm’s lips as he shouted, and landed in droplets on Wayne’s glasses.

Wayne stood there, recoiling in terror and frozen on the spot, staring back into Malcolm’s steely blue eyes like a rat caught in the glare of a cobra. “You’re…you’re completely mental…” he stammered.

“Oh I am so much worse than that, you pathetic piece of shit!” Malcolm cut him off, his voice booming like thunder and the vein in his right temple throbbing. “I am your worst fucking nightmare. And if I hear even _one_ _word_ that you’ve so much as sent a text to Sam, I’m going to slowly eviscerate you with a pair of rusty toenail clippers, and have the stringy bits force-fed to you by a eunuch while I dance a tarantella on your fucking skull! Now fuck the fuck off, you fucking cunt!!”

Wayne fucked the fuck off. At a run. 

“And learn some respect for women, you shriveled ballsack!” Malcolm shouted after him. He turned to Sam and wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders, still scowling and looking worried.

“Are you OK?” He felt her tremble under his touch, and assumed it was from the confrontation with that arsehole, which made him fume even more.

She nodded. “Thank you. I can usually handle maggots like him, but the bloody toe-rag had me trapped.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“No, really, I’m fine.” She held up a hand. “I think I’ll just go now. I’ve had enough shit for one day.” 

“Are you sure? Do you want me to take you home? Let me take you home – I’ll get a cab.” He looked around the room. “Besides, I’d rather get out of here before Nicola decides it’s a good time to photocopy her arse.” He was gratified to see Sam smile a little.

“Yeah, OK,” she nodded. “I’d like that. Thanks.”

* * *

 

“Wait here. I’ll just be a few minutes,” Malcolm told the driver as he escorted Sam into her flat, closing the door behind him as they entered.

She hadn’t said a word during the entire ride home, just stared out the window, and Malcolm was worried about her.

“What’s wrong, love? Are you still upset by that wanker? I’ll hunt him down and pull his fuckin’ fingernails out one by one, then shove them up his arse with the wide end of an unlubricated cricket bat, if you want….”

Sam threw her coat over the back of her sofa, took a deep breath, and turned to look at him, studying his face. After a long moment, she finally spoke. 

“Why’d you do it? Why did you rescue me?”

Malcolm looked surprised. “Didn’t you want me to?”

“Yes. Of course. And I’m grateful. But….”

“But what?” He took a step closer to her.

“Why?”

“Gormless fuckwits like him need to be taught a lesson. And… I saw a damsel in distress. I am nothing if not chivalrous.” He gave her a toothy half-smile. 

“Is that all?” She stepped into his personal space, nearly touching him, and gazed right into his blue-green eyes.

For once, Malcolm Tucker, the master wordsmith, was speechless.

“You spend your life saving everyone else’s sorry arses – including mine -- but what about you? What do _you_ want, Malcolm?” she asked.

“What I want doesn’t matter.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” She challenged him. “You need to make up your mind.”

“About what?”

“About us.”

“Us?” He swallowed, his body suddenly as tense as a drawn bowstring.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me.” 

He didn’t deny it. “…And?”

“And. I want you too. I thought that was obvious.” She fondled his lapel.

“Daft lass,” he said, glancing down at her hand and back into her eyes.

“I’d have to be,” she smirked, placing her arms around his neck. “The question is, what are we going to do about it?” 

“This is a bad idea,” he said, placing his hands on her waist. His intense gaze flicked to her mouth, then back up again. She could feel his warm breath on her lips.

“Is it?” She kissed him. 

“Very bad.”

She kissed him again. He hesitated for just an instant, then yielded, and returned the kiss with surprising tenderness. She had expected him to be rough, his mouth tasting of smoke and brimstone, singed by the fires of his volcanic temperament; but his lips were cool to the touch, and flavored with oranges. When he cupped her cheeks with his palms, his hands were unexpectedly soft as he stroked her skin. The tip of her tongue fluttered across his lips, teasing, asking for entry, and he opened his mouth to her, hungry. Relief flooded through them both as they kissed each other, as the long-parched earth welcomes the rain… _finally_ … their tongues delved deeper with each press of their lips, savoring every caress.

Their kisses grew more passionate, becoming harder and slower even while their breathing grew more rapid. She lightly nipped at his lower lip with her teeth, and raked her fingernails up the back of his neck and through his hair, sending a shiver down his spine. His hands wandered over her back, gliding over the expanse of smooth, bare skin exposed by her gown, making her skin tingle with every stroke. He planted a line of tiny kisses along her cheek to her earlobe and sucked on it, making her go weak in the knees. From there he began to explore her jawline and neck with his nose and lips and tongue, nuzzling, nipping and licking his way down to the tops of her breasts. He breathed deeply of her scent, which was an intoxicating mix of her perfume and chocolate and that ineffable something that was _her_. She leaned her head back to give him access, a soft moan escaping her lips.

“God you’re fucking gorgeous,” he growled, pulling her close, his hands sliding down to cup her backside, as he claimed her mouth again.

She could feel his growing arousal through his clothes, and her core began to pulse and ache with longing. In response, she ground her hips against him, and traced a fingernail down his chest, grazing one of his nipples through his shirt. He hissed sharply and his cock jumped against her body.

She loosened his tie, then reached for his collar studs, intending to unfasten them, but he abruptly broke off the kiss and let out a frustrated bark. He pulled back, panting, then closed his eyes and placed his forehead against hers.

“I… I can’t do this,” he said, taking her hands in his own to stop her from torturing him further. 

“Why not?” 

He raised his head and looked into her beautiful brown eyes; her pupils were dilated and her cheeks were flushed with desire and it was all he could do to stop himself from devouring her once more.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You’re not getting away that easily. Tell me.”

He looked at her, his expression earnest. “They’ll destroy us.”

“No one needs to know.”

“But they will. They _always_ find out.”

“I don’t care,” she said, “I’d be proud to be seen with you. I already am.” She traced little circles on his palms with her thumbs.

He shook his head. “I’m poison to relationships. Normal life and I are incompatible.”

“If I wanted normal I’d be working at Sainsbury’s. I don’t want normal. I want danger and passion and meaning. There’s no poetry in normal.” 

“There’s no poetry in a shit-storm, either,” he replied. “Besides; no one needs a cold-hearted old workaholic arsehole like me. Especially not you.” 

“You’re not old. You’re magnificent.”

“Huh. Not anymore.” His shoulders fell, a look of defeat creasing his brow. 

She stared at him. “Don’t you want this?” She raised one of his hands to her lips, blew softly on his palm, and kissed it. 

His throat clenched and his breath hitched and his eyes told her everything -- everything he could not, would not, dared not say: _Dear fucking god yes. Right now I want to fuck you so hard against a wall that you come screaming my name in stentorian tones loud enough to drive the demons from my soul; and then…and then, beloved, I want to drown in you until I can’t breathe anymore and die the death of the deathless, again and again until am reborn as someone else on another planet in a parallel universe very fucking far away from this one._

Then he grimaced, as though in pain, and released her hands. “I’m sorry,” was all he said, his voice strained. He kissed her forehead. “Maybe in another life….”

“Last time I checked, we only get this one.”

“My cab’s waiting.” He took a white handkerchief out of his pocket, and rubbed all traces of her lipstick off his face before turning towards the door.

Sam looked at him sadly. “Maybe in another life.”

He gave her one last look, his eyes full of regret, and left. 

After the door closed behind him she whispered, “Goodbye, Malcolm.” She stood there for several minutes, breathing in the silence of her room, until the taste of him no longer lingered on her lips.

* * *

 

Text From: Malcolm Tucker

To: Sam Cassidy

  

I’m a fucking idiot

Can we try again?

I’d like to see you

 

[Cancel]

[Delete message?]

[Message deleted not delivered]

 

* * *

 

**From:** Malcolm Tucker [mailto: mtucker@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Glenn Cullen

**Subject** : Plasterboard repair

 Hey mate. Know any good plasterboard repair companies?

 Malc

 *

 

**From:** Glenn Cullen [mailto: glenncullen@dosac.gov.uk]

**To:** Malcolm Tucker

**Subject** : RE: Plasterboard repair

                  Let me guess: a poor unfortunate wall lost an argument with a fist.

                  Yours maybe?

                  Glenn

                  *

 

**From:** Malcolm Tucker [mailto: mtucker@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Glenn Cullen

**Subject** : RE: RE: Plasterboard repair

                                  Don’t even fucking ask, you stupid cunt. Just give me a name or you’ll be the one losing an argument with my fist.

                                  *


	4. Lobsters

Life at Number 10 continued on in its usual stormy mess, and if anything had changed between Malcolm and Sam, no one noticed. Both of them were far too practiced at letting the world see what they wanted it to see. No one need know that something unusual had happened the night of the Party gala, because as far as the world was concerned, it hadn’t. There was no story here. Even if anyone did spot the stolen glances and extra little “accidental” touches they exchanged in passing, they didn’t dare mention it.

Furthermore, Malcolm was far too busy trying to build a raft out of the debris of his faltering career to do anything other than lean heavily on Sam’s professional skills. He worked desperately to maintain control, even as the cracks in his granite façade turned into chasms and his own government floundered around him -- all of them headed inexorably towards the raging waterfall of a looming election.

He didn’t even stop moving on his birthday (the whirlwind never stopped, so he couldn’t afford to either), but one gift did give him a moment’s pause: a fine single malt whiskey, wrapped in silver paper, with a hand-written card attached.

Happy 50th Birthday -- To the best boss in all of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. -- Sam x

 

* * *

 

Text From: Malcolm Tucker

To: Sam Cassidy

 

It’s too much

Thank you

M xx

 

No it isn’t

Happy Birthday

S xx

 

* * *

 

Mobile Telephone Record 049827– Z03H

Caller ID: Simon Hewitt, Journalist

Recipient: Malcolm Tucker

 

MT: Tucker.

SH: Malcolm. How’s it hanging.

MT: Bigger than yours, Hewitt.

SH: Your ex-girlfriend Kelly told me otherwise.

MT: Only in your homoerotic dreams, you twat. Why are you wasting my time?

SH: I’m doing a story on Steve Fleming.

MT: NoMFP

SH: What?

MT: Never mind.

SH: I want to know when he’s taking over your job. Got a resignation date set yet? 

MT: Fuck you, Hewitt!

( _call terminated by recipient_ )

 

* * *

 

BBC1 VIDEO EDITION

BREAKING NEWS

  

MALCOLM TUCKER RESIGNATION

Number 10 confirms spin doctor’s departure

 

* * *

 

 

> “What are you doing to her?
> 
> Don’t worry. Just go.
> 
> Leave her fucking alone.
> 
> Don’t worry. It’s all right. It’s all right.”
> 
> \-- S.3 E.7, The Thick of It
> 
>  

* * *

 

Malcolm’s departure at the hands of Steve Fleming left him feeling enraged, bitter, and utterly lost -- a rudderless ghost ship drifting in a vast sea of unimaginably brainless people and their even more vapid and downright ludicrous ideas for what he should do next.

He spent his days in a gray fog, fighting the black dog that prowled at the edges of his consciousness, just waiting for him to expose his neck so it could finish him off in a final bloody attack of self-hatred.

“I’m not that easy to kill,” he said to his empty house one morning, though he was by no means certain of that. 

Malcolm did his best to keep busy: he met with his agent, pestered his numerous enemies, watched the news, went on demeaning interviews, tugged himself off until he got tired of it, and paced the floors of his house like a caged and restless animal, plotting his comeback – and his revenge.

* * *

 

10 Downing Street

LONDON SW1A 2AA

 

**_Transcript_ ** _of telephone call 15. 12. 09, connection logged at 08:23. Number 10,_

_incoming [handset D1] recipient STEVE FLEMING, MP. Landline caller MALCOLM TUCKER._

 

SF       Fleming here.

MT      I’m watching you.

SF       What the fuck do you want, Malcolm. You’re sacked. Deal with it.

MT      I saw what you did with those data files, Steven, you naughty little prick.

SF       You don’t scare me. And for fuck’s sake! IT’S STEVE!

_[terminated by recipient]_

* * *

 

10 Downing Street

LONDON SW1A 2AA

  ** _Transcript_ ** _of telephone call 15. 12. 09, connection logged at 12:03. Number 10,_

_incoming [handset D3] recipient STEVE FLEMING, MP. Mobile caller MALCOLM TUCKER._

 

SF       Yes. Fleming here.

MT      Has anyone given your baldie head a blowjob lately, Steven? I hear Swine Faced Swift over at the Mail has a thing for the shiny-tops.   

_[terminated by recipient]_

* * *

 

10 Downing Street

LONDON SW1A 2AA

**_Transcript_ ** _of telephone call 15. 12. 09, connection logged at 17:23. Number 10,_

_incoming [handset E4] recipient STEVE FLEMING, MP. Landline caller MALCOLM TUCKER._

 

SF       Fleming here.

MT      I see you, you dried up clot of knob-mucus.

SF       _[inaudible, possibly ‘Christ on a cuntwagon’]_ Where the fuck are you!? I’m in a fucking pantry. How did you find me?

MT      Nowhere is safe, Steven. You cannot hide from my all-seeing Third Eye.

SF       Fuck off, Malcolm. And for the last time, It’s _[inaudible, volume distortion]_ STEVE! Fuck him! Fuck him! Fuck him! 

_[terminated by recipient]_

* * *

 

Text From: Malcolm Tucker

To: Sam Cassidy

  

Wish I could have seen Phlegm’s face when I caught him in the pantry

M x

 

He turned as purple as the Queen’s socks

S x

 

Brilliant! Now where is he?

M

 

Headed for the loo with his mobile. Wait 30 seconds

S

 

I think I love you

M xx

* * *

  

**From:** Lord Nicholson [jnicholson@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Samantha Cassidy

**Subject:** Information request

Miss Cassidy,

Can you please be so kind as to provide current contact information for Mr. Tucker?

I require an email address and telephone number to continue my inquiry.

Thank you.

LJN

*

**From:** Sam Cassidy [mailto: scassidy@gov.org.uk]

**To:** Lord Nicholson

**CC** : Malcolm Tucker [mailto: dontblamemenowthateverythingisfucked@gmail.com]

**Subject:** RE **:** Information request 

                Lord Nicholson,

                You may reach Malcolm via email at the above cc.

                His mobile number has not changed, though I believe he now shares that number with a lobster farming enterprise.

                Sam

                *

 

* * *

 

For the first time in his life, Malcolm couldn’t see a clear way forward. The future, which he’d always been the master of until now, was a grey, inscrutable haze. The only thing that kept his days from melting into a formless blur like a chalk drawing in the rain was Sam. She was his lifeline, though he was too proud (and too fucking stupid, he knew), to admit it to her. Sam checked on him often, sent texts and emails, and called him at least once a day. When she took food to his house, unasked, his demeanor was gruff and grumpy, but he didn’t turn her away.

“I can look after myself, you know,” he grumbled, as she strode past him and into his house.

“Maybe. But a man cannot live on crisps alone.” In one hand she carried a sack full of decent already-prepared meals she knew he might actually eat, and in the other, a good bottle of Pinot to go with them. He looked more drawn and pallid than usual, even with the extra layer of a grey fleece jumper he had pulled on over a checked casual shirt. This only strengthened her resolve that she’d done the right thing by coming round.

He followed her into the kitchen and watched her as she filled his refrigerator and placed a handful of satsumas in a bowl on the counter, his mind racing. Finally, he blurted out, “Why are you here? I’m not your boss anymore. You don’t have to do this.”

“I had to put this food somewhere,” she said lightly. “No point in wasting a perfectly good curry. Besides – I had to get away from the office. Fleming makes my skin crawl.” 

“He does have that effect on people. But seriously. Why you keep coming here is beyond my compre-fucking-hension.” 

She finished her task, turned to him, and placed one hand on his chest. His heart skipped a beat as she gazed into his blue-green eyes, her face soft with compassion…and something else. Something more. Something preposterous. 

“You know why,” she said.

He looked back at her, disbelieving, unable to accept the gift of love in her eyes, and shook his head.

“My life’s a fucking hurricane of toxic waste. Get too close to me, and your career’s over. You should just leave me. Run away while you still can.”

“You underestimate me,” she said, her loving gaze unwavering, “never do that. I can take care of myself – after all, I’ve put up with you forever, haven’t I?”

“Fair point,” he agreed. There was a long pause. “You can’t save me, Sam. It’s too late for redemption. Faust and I are best mates sharing a bunk on a one-way train to Hell.”

“You don’t need saving. You’re indomitable,” she said, rubbing his upper arm. “Besides, I’m not interested in saving anyone.” Her eyes bore into him, relentless, slowly melting his resolve. “I’m just interested in you.”

“But what if I don’t want you here?” His voice caught in his throat.

“Then I’ll leave. But I think,” she said, tracing the bare skin exposed by his open collar with her fingertips, sending warmth spreading across his chest, “just maybe….” She hesitated.

“What?”

“You do want me here. You’re just afraid.”

“Ha!” He snorted. “Me. Afraid!” He gestured towards himself. “Never. Nothing scares me. I do the scaring.”

“Really?” A playful smile curved her lips. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He considered this for a moment. “You’re really not, are ye.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Nope.” She smiled again. “You mean to tell me that nothing in the whole universe frightens the great and powerful Malcolm Tucker?”

“Course not,” he replied, affronted.

She leaned forwards and whispered, “C’mon, you can tell me.” 

“Don’t play games with me, darlin’.”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me,” she insisted. “I’ll start: Peter Mannion’s haircut. I have nightmares about it.”

He rolled his eyes. “Have it your way. But be careful what you ask for. How about… being trapped in a lift with Fat Pat after she’s been to the chippy. They give her wind that could suffocate a hippo.” 

“Hmmm. What else?” She placed her palm on his cheek and lightly stroked the hair that curled around his ear. His heart beat a little faster and the warmth in his chest spread to his fingertips, making them tingle.

“I believe it’s your turn,” he said. 

“Running out of coffee.”

“Well, that is a genuinely frightening thought,” he agreed, “though I’d also be gutted if Coronation Street were cancelled.”

She caressed his lips with her thumb, sending a jolt of electricity through them that ran all the way down his spine.

“Ooh, I’m shaking in my shoes,” she said, “That’s almost as scary as being forced to listen to Boom Boom Pow on a continuous loop.” She leaned forward, pausing with her mouth just millimeters from his own. “Your turn,” she exhaled softly, moistening his lips with her breath. Heat spread through his whole whole body then, warming him from head to toe.

_Losing you_ , he thought, but didn’t say it, not out loud. He didn’t need to. She already knew. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, answering his silent confession, and she fluttered her lips over his, teasing them apart gently.

When she flicked the tip of her tongue between his teeth, his brain turned to static. He closed his eyes, and opened his mouth to her, exhaling with a sigh. Overwhelmed by the taste and feel and scent of lips and teeth and tongue and hands and soft warm skin ... the glacier of resistance that encircled his heart cracked. When she kissed him again, sliding her slick tongue across his own and grinding against his body with her entire being, the ice shattered and fell away in a glittering shower of shards, then melted into nothing under the heat of her body and soul pouring into him. 

A flood of longing unleashed at last, he captured her mouth again and again. He tangled his fingers in her long silky hair, the fire in his groin increasing with every breathless press of their lips. And he wanted more. So much more. He wanted everything. _It’s not enough. There can never be enough. Drown me, destroy me, steal my breath and scorch me to ash with your sweet hot mouth. Burn me in fire until I am no more._

After a minute she broke off the kiss and began licking and sucking her way down the side of his neck, sliding her tongue along the taut tendon and giving it a sharp bite. He hissed as she laved the spot with her tongue. When she ducked her mouth to the little divot between his collarbones, swirling at it with her tongue, he moaned a little. From there she kissed a stripe down his chest to where the buttons of his shirt and zip of his jumper halted her progress. She sucked on the spot, marking him, then pushed her hands up under his fleece, urging it upwards and off over his head. Her nimble fingers quickly undid the rest of his shirt buttons and her tongue followed as she undid each one, nipping and licking his skin all the way down to his belt buckle, his breath coming in short bursts with every burning touch of her lips. 

_Jesus Christ I’m not going to last if she keeps doing that,_ he thought as she palmed his growing erection through the fabric of his trousers. He shrugged off his shirt and added it to the pile of clothing on the floor.

He cupped her cheeks with his palms and kissed her with almost bruising ferocity, then, and she responded with equal fire, scratching her nails down his chest, over his stomach, and around to his back.

With practiced speed he unbuttoned her blouse and unhooked her bra, sliding his hands around to cup and knead her breasts even as he continued to devour her mouth. He flicked his thumbs over her nipples and they hardened in an instant. She yanked off her loosened clothing and he reached down to worship her breasts, reverently kissing and sucking the soft flesh.

“You taste good,” he said, tracing circles with his thumbs and nipping gently on the firm rosy buds, “like chocolate….”

She moaned with pleasure and arched backwards, pushing her chest against his mouth and pulling his silver hair with her fingers, pressing his head towards her body, seeking even more stimulation.

He kissed and caressed his way down her bare stomach, stopping to nuzzle her soft round belly before reaching for the side zip on her skirt. As the skirt slid down over her legs he rubbed his palms up and down her thighs. He gazed deeply into her eyes, pupils blown wide and asked, “You sure about this, love?”

In response she hooked his fingers through the elastic of her knickers. He chuckled at that and yanked them downwards. She shimmied her hips and her underwear fell to the floor, and she stepped out of them, kicking her shoes off at the same time.

Malcolm stopped to stare at her, completely revealed before him. “My god you’re beautiful,” he said, awed, “like a painting.” 

“Oh, shut up and kiss me” she said, smiling, and threw her arms around his neck. She let out a startled yelp as he reached down and grabbed her backside firmly with both hands. With surprising strength he hoisted her onto the kitchen countertop, and she laughed. He slid his hands around to her inner thighs and spread her legs apart before palming her sex. When she ground against his hand he felt the moisture pooling there and he let out a growl.

“Christ, you’re wetter than an English summer.”

“Mmm. I guess this means the food will have to wait,” she said.

“Who needs food?” He lowered his chin and cast her a smouldering look from beneath his eyebrows – a look that sent lightning to her core – and dropped to his knees. 

She gasped as she felt the stubble on his chin graze her inner thigh, and then…he was on her, his eager mouth venerating her with the devotion of a supplicant paying homage to a goddess. A low, agonized moan escaped her lips as he slid his tongue slowly over her mound and lapped at her slick folds. Fingers buried in his hair, she pulled his head towards her, panting and begging for more. He slipped one of his impossibly long fingers inside her and glided it in and out until he found the most exquisitely sensitive spot, the one that made her squirm. He pressed it, hard, while drawing circles around her clit with the firm point of his tongue, making her whimper and arch against his mouth until she cried out.

“Wait, stop!” she said, panting, her voice shaking. He stopped immediately, took his hands from her and stood up.

“Oh shit. Did I hurt you?” She shook her head no. “Ye’ve not changed your mind, have ye?”

“God no. In there.” She pointed to the shopping bag that still lay on the counter. He reached for it and dumped out the remaining contents: a packet of condoms and a bottle of lube. The wolfish grin that spread across his face when he saw them made her purr in the back of her throat, like a cat.

“You’re fucking amazing, you know that?” he said, and kissed her deeply, his lips still wet with her essence.

She reached for his belt buckle and unfastened the belt, button and zip in one swift motion, then tugged his trousers and boxers down together. “Mmm, nice,” she said, admiring the view as he stepped out of his clothes. She knew he was well endowed from that strange night in the hotel, but was pleasantly surprised even so. He smirked at her and arched an eyebrow. 

“Want you,” she said, her voice burning with desire. He couldn’t get the condom wrapper off fast enough, ripping it open with his teeth and rolling it on, with her help. She grabbed his cock with her hand and pumped him using a few firm strokes, making him stiff as chiseled marble. “Now,” she said, pulling him towards her and wrapping her legs around his waist.

It was all the invitation he needed. He grabbed her backside with his hands, seized her mouth in a passionate kiss, and simultaneously thrust both his tongue and his member inside her in one stroke. She moaned with pleasure and squeezed her inner muscles against him, pulling him in even deeper, and he let out a loud groan.

He started a slow rhythm, moving in and out of her gently until she grabbed his arse with both hands, digging her fingers into the firm flesh, and pulled him forward, hard, so that he was fully sheathed inside her.

“For god’s sake, just fuck me, Malcolm,” she pleaded.

He growled, and hammered into her, fast and rough, again and again, with her mirroring his movements with equal ravenousness, desperate for release. She grabbed one of his hands and pushed it against her clit, and he complied, rubbing and flicking her swollen bud with and increasingly fast tempo as her walls tightened around him. Sweat beaded on her brow and she breathed heavily, moaning and gasping as he thrust against her.

He sighed in time with their movements, then panted in her ear, his voice low and commanding, “Come for me now, love. I’m gonna come.” 

His words tipped her over the edge, and she shattered around him, crying exaltations to heaven and calling his name. He followed her, cursing and shouting his own release. And for just a moment – one blissful moment – the utter shit pile of his life disappeared, annihilated in the explosion of light and fire. His pulsing orgasm rippled against her own rapidly contracting muscles as he rode her, wave after wave of pleasure shuddering through their bodies. He continued to thrust into her, stretching her fulfillment out as long as possible until the last flutter died away and she sighed against his neck. Panting and breathless, she kissed his shoulder, and he roamed his hands over her back as they both calmed, breathing in unison. When he kissed her one last time and gently pulled out, she pouted at the loss of contact.

“I’ll be back in a tick,” he said, and went to clean up. She followed him upstairs to his bedroom. When he returned from the bathroom, wearing nothing but his black silk kimono, he found her sprawled naked in his bed and wrapped in a duvet, her cheeks flushed pink and a contented smile on her face. He slid under the covers next to her, wrapped his arms around her, and caressed her hair.

“OK, love?” he asked.

“More than OK,” she said, lazily toying with the sprinkling of gray hair that dusted his chest. She yawned and snuggled her head against his shoulder, and closed her eyes.

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

*******

Malcolm woke with a start, instantly aware that Sam’s arm was draped across his bare chest. His body betrayed him then, heat pooling immediately in that part of him which was already stiff to begin with. His brain raced through a dozen possible strategic responses to the situation, before deciding on the best course of action: he rolled over on top of her, and kissed her. Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled. 

“Morning, love,” he said.

“Morning. And before you ask, no, you don’t.”

“I don’t what?” 

“Deserve me.”

“Fucking right, I don’t.” He kissed her again. The taste on his tongue was a mingled symphony of oranges and chocolate…and joy.

 

* * *

 

Text From: Malcolm Tucker

To: Sam Cassidy

  

The lobster farm will have to wait. I’ll be in Monday. Advisory capacity

M x

 

I heard. A little bird told me

S x

 

You mean a little baldy toff told you

M x

 

Congratulations

S x

 

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a fucking arsehole in possession of an advisory position must be in want of a P. A. Interested?

M x

 

Always

S x

 

That’s my girl. See you Monday

M x

 

Sam

M

 

Yes?

S

 

Thank you

M

 

For what?

S

 

For keeping me warm

M xxx

* * *

( _Fin_ )

Wait, what?

What the fuck is that supposed to be, fucking French?

Take your ‘fin’ and shove it up your limp cock.

Nobody ‘fins’ me. I have never been finned. I am un-finnable!

You will fucking see me again!

 


End file.
